Nothing
by hematichigh
Summary: This scene takes place after 1x14, in which Damon discovers he's spent decades trying to free Katherine from a tomb she wasn't actually in. He lashes out, channeling his anger on a compelled woman. WARNING: This piece contains noncon, violence and adult content.


_Nothing is important. Not anymore._

"You want me more than you've ever wanted anyone in your life."

Damon's voice is low, and he enunciates carefully. It's a chore; the bourbon sloshes in the bottle.

"The very sight of me, my every touch, makes you wet. Makes your clit throb. You want me to fuck you so hard you can't stop screaming, and then you want me to fuck you some more."

The girl nods. "I want you to fuck me so hard I can't stop screaming."

"And you want your friends to watch."

"And I want my friends to watch."

Damon's pupils dilate; partly compulsion, partly the substances. He swigs bourbon, runs his eyes over her. They're out of focus but they find hers long enough to give her a final directive.

"And your name is Katherine." His voice breaks over the word. He is pitiful, odious. More swigs.

She nods again.

"My name is Katherine."

* * *

His hand works into curls. She's bent over his table, solid mahogany. An heirloom. He knocks her head against it, hard, and she cries out.

"What do you want me to do?" His voice is hard, too.

She answers. "I want you to fuck me."

He looks with disgust at the two women in the corner, one crying, the other on the verge of coming; she's fucking herself with a vibrator he found in her purse. They sound remarkably similar, cacophonous, and they're distracting him. He's forgotten what he's compelled them to do, what he's compelled them to feel. He guesses the woman's crying because he didn't compel her not to, but he's not sure.

"You," he says, looking past the tears to the pupils. His dilate, hers dilate. "Come here."

She obeys, of course. Her underwear is white and her eyes are dark and she is hideous to him.

"Any chance I could get you to keep it down?"

Tears fill her eyes and she reaches for his face.

"I love you," she says. "I love you."

He remembers why she's crying.

* * *

Katherine* is moaning, flinching, tensed against the polished wood. He's deep in her neck, fangs in her artery, and he jerks them hard to the side, slicing a gash. She panics, and her adrenaline is like a hit of ecstasy. He presses his hips against her ass, and she can feel his erection through his jeans. The crying girl takes one of her clenched hands, strokes her palm. "Shhh," she says serenely, and smiles through her tears. "Shhh. Don't cry. Don't you know how lucky you are?"

Damon takes his fangs out, wrenches her up from the table, spins her towards him, and the hand-holder is left holding air. He exhales slowly. Bloody freckles appear on Katherine*'s face.

"What do you want?"

Her pussy clenches. She's wet, like he said. Wants him to fuck her, wants him to tear at her, wants to see his face when he comes inside her, but she doesn't know why and her stomach's in knots and she thinks she might throw up.

"I want you. More than I've ever wanted anyone."

She watches her blood drip from his smile, then all she sees is the living room wall turned sideways as the flesh hanging on her skull molds to the table; she hears the zip of a fly, feels fingers gracelessly shove her underwear down her legs, and she works the meat of her lip between rows of bone. She wants him to fuck her, moves against the table, working her hips up and down. Moans, _"please. Please."_ Spreads her legs apart, shows him where she wants him. _"Please._"

A line of moisture collects between her cheek and the table, and her mascara runs.

Someone takes her hand once more, holds it gently, the most tender of touches playing between her fingers. "_Don't you know how lucky you are?_"

* * *

Damon looks at her nakedness, looks hard. Just stands there and looks at her as her desperation gets less and less contained. She looks wrong. It's the back of her knees; he stares, stares. They're the wrong shape. And her pussy, too, it's the wrong color, the wrong topography. The wetness helps a little.

He closes his eyes.

He starts by touching the knees that look wrong. His hands can't tell; they feel right, and he feels good, and he smiles. He puts a hand on each one, twists his wrists around until his palms press on her inner legs and his fingers cover her kneecaps. Light friction makes her wrong knees bend, and the edge of the table digs into her abdomen as she sinks towards his touch. "Come on," she says. "_Fuck me_."

He digs his nails into her legs, and she lunges forward, crying out. "Yes," she breathes through sobs. "Make me scream."

He's on top of her in a flash, leaning over her, hands holding him up. His lips find her ear through dark curls matted with blood.

"Make you what?"

"Make me _scream."_ She pushes up against him, begging him to penetrate her; he's pinned her hands behind her back, stealing them away from the girl now weeping helplessly in the corner, but Katherine* can still wriggle back against him. He's hard; why won't he give her what she wants?

She smells wrong, and he pulls back. He reaches his hand between her legs, unceremoniously fingers her clit, and she breathes hot gratitude. At least she feels right, and he's almost ready to fuck his emptiness away, leave it inside her. She's not screaming, not yet, so he knows she's not done; she's whimpering, begging, but not screaming.

* * *

She's never wanted anything in her life more than she wants him inside her. His touch is sloppy and inattentive, but it makes her shake, throb; flesh presses into the hard surface in dynamic patterns as her whole body moves against his hand. For lack of anything else to bite into, she bites her lip, over and over. The position is uncomfortable; her head is uncushioned and her neck twists awkwardly. Wrenching pain in her shoulders accompanies incapacitating want; every movement strains at the tendons in the sockets, but she can't stop.

"Ahh," she breathes, and she doesn't know if it's pleasure or pain but she can't keep silent and she can't keep still. But she's not screaming. Not yet.

She feels him take his hand away from her cunt.

"No," she says, begging, dread building into full-blown panic. "You can't stop, please, don't stop, please." Her sobs renew, and she rests her forehead against the punishing surface. "I'll do anything, please…"

He poises his cock at the edge of her, and she freezes, terrified he'll torture her more, change his mind, leave her. She's wholly nauseated, can taste her own blood, dizzy with fear.

When he finally pushes into her, she breathes a sigh of relief and lays her cheek back down, though the nausea redoubles. Her vision locks on an old painting with an ornate gold frame, and she traces its dips and curves as he knocks her pelvic bones repeatedly into the edge of the table, bruises forming above them. Solid mahogany. An heirloom.

* * *

She feels incredible against his cock; he can't quite fit in comfortably despite how wet she is, so he draws back slowly and pushes in quickly and shoves her apart. Human speed for now, deliberate. He starts every thrust anew, like each one means something, and they get increasingly forceful as his arousal builds with his hatred.

At least she feels right.

Disgust hollows the pit of his stomach, mounting by the second. He watches the muscles tense and release in her back; her ribs expand and contract with her lungs. She's probably saying something, but he's not listening. Doesn't care. All he knows is she's not screaming. He grabs the curls with his free hand, digging his elbow into her back, yanks; she yells out with a strangled sob, and her cunt clenches around him. He lets her arms go so he can feel the breasts that are no longer pressed against the wood, holding her up by the hair; at least she feels right. Damon's head rears back, fangs retracted, and he crashes sharp teeth into her so hard she falls forward and loses her wind. His hand stays on her breast, caressing her nipple softly, and she thinks she might come soon. The violation of her veins is making her lightheaded, though. She briefly wonders whether she'll lose consciousness before he allows her to climax.

The blood does nothing to abate his rage. Furious grunts accompany each gulp, and he times them to align with penetrative shoving. No longer gentle, he finds her nipple and claws into it, and finally she screams, and he can feel the orgasm building deep in his abdomen. He bites just to bite now, digging teeth into her side, her shoulder. She screams and screams, and he pushes her head down, rocking forward and back at vampire speed, and she's lost track of the number of wounds from which she's losing blood. Screams end in whimpers and build back up; her morphing timbre peaks his fury, and he slams into her over and over. His fingers return to her clit; he wants to feel her come, and bullies her into orgasm with relentless stimulation, stimulation she's compelled to enjoy. Her screams morph, and he lets her push up so she can rock freely, sliding her pussy against him as it contracts hard and fast.

Only when she collapses weakly does he come inside her, the power of his final thrusts moving the table forward an inch and flopping Katherine* further onto it. She cries out as blood vessels rupture and blossom beneath her skin.

A sad smile watches from the corner, and a small voice accompanies it. Damon looks up, dazed, and stares vacantly at the source of the sound as she says,

"Can I be next?"


End file.
